


the lies they say (the truths our bodies tell)

by lostinthefire



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky's body is a mess, Chronic Pain, Gen, How Do I Tag, Minor Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Pain, Spoon Theory, Spoons, Steve and Sam help in different ways, body issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 19:55:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4679306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinthefire/pseuds/lostinthefire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They tell him lies about how it won't hurt.  He learns not to believe them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the lies they say (the truths our bodies tell)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apatternedfever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apatternedfever/gifts).



> This is a gift for apatternedfever, who is wonderful (and also doesn't know I am doing this for them) and has been going through pain on a regular basis. I hope you like it, dear.
> 
> I do not have from chronic pain, though I do have other chronic issues. I tried to treat the issue with respect and I hope I did well.

They whisper words into his ear, hold him down with caring hands and tell him it won't hurt.

_It won't hurt, we promise. It won't hurt, it's going to be fine. It won't hurt, we're going to make you better._

After the first time they hurt him, leave him screaming as they saw, cut, break and tear at his body, there were soft words of comfort from doctors who cleaned his wounds, sewed him up and made sure his (theirs, really) body didn't get infections.

They told him the hurting was over, that all he had to do was behave and do as he was told --be a soldier-- and he would be fine.

But the orders left him cold and he couldn't obey, couldn't be the gun they wanted.

And when the hurting came again, this time there were no kind words. There were orders, there were commands. No one promised the hurting wouldn't come back. No one offered him that lie.

~

The Soldier knows what pain is, knows the bone deep ache that constantly affects him. He knows the pain of a bullet wound, the cut of a knife. He knows all sorts of ways to break a man and how to leave him alive while doing it..

He knows what hurting is and what it's for.

He doesn't remember being anything but what he is. He doesn't dream of times long past, of a boy who broke under the pain that he couldn't handle. All he knows is that he's here now, a man built to withstand a thousand blows. 

But the pain is there no matter how calloused he gets, no matter what they do to him. The pain is a constant in his life just like the chair and the cryo chamber. 

He knows it intimately.

He will never stop knowing it.

No one tells him it won't hurt anymore, no one tells him those kinds of lies. They tell him it will hurt, they tell him he deserves i

~

He doesn’t dream but sometimes, as he waits to take a shot or a moment before he strikes with his knives, he wonders if the people he's about strike know what pain is.

In his mind, he promises those people that he will make the pain as quick as he can.

~

Steve Rogers promises he won't hut him.

He sits on the edge of the room Rogers gave him and watches him as he moves through the space like a man who doesn't know where he is. He says no one will ever hurt him again, that he --Steve-- will keep it from happening.

He promises him that the hurting is over.

What he doesn’t tell Rogers is that, in all honesty, he's numb at the idea, that the pain had been a part of functioning and even if he takes out of the external pain, his body is wrecked, broken and reformed and broken again and there's so much pain that comes from within him that he doesn't believe he'll ever know what it's not like to be in pain

The man is lying even though he doesn't realize it and it makes him feel nervous, makes him wonder what other lies might spring up.

Because at least people were honest before. At least when they said it would hurt, it did.

They promised pain and they delivered. There's no delivery on the promises he's offered now and he expects there never will be.

~

Bucky learns.

He learns his name, he learns that Steve is a good guy, that they’re friends. He learns how to smile, how to take comfort in the warmth of a cup of coffee and what food tastes like again.

He learns how to move, how to breathe, how to make himself act like a person.

And he learns that the pain, the ache in his bones, the burning in his muscles, will be a constant companion.

They tell him that his body will recover, that he will one day live without pain. They tell him that he can get better and that one day, his body will be functional in every way.

But he knows a lie when he hears one, no matter how sweet the words and how sincere the promise.

He doesn't have the hope they want him to, can't believe the pretty lies that fall from the doctors and technicians that surround him.

He will be in pain, he accepts that. He will not be told another lie, he won't let himself fall into that trap.

~

He doesn't complain about the pain he's in, he never says a word about it.

There's no point really, no one is going to fix it. No one seems to be interested in making it worse either, so there's that, but very aware there is little any one of the people he's associating with now can do.

He is going to be in pain, that's just how it is.

It's not losing hope and it's not denying the possibility of getting better. It's knowing what life is going to be like and not allowing yourself to become deluded with the prospects of something that may never come.

He will be in pain. He will wake up and go to sleep hurting and he accepts that. At least nothing is making it flare up more than normal. He doesn’t have to wake up and know that there will be bullets or belts or whatever his former captors deemed fit for him that day.

Sometimes Steve tries to get him to try and be an optimist, on the days when Bucky is more obviously in pain rather than simply able to hide it. However, he knows the truth and won't let Steve lie to him. There have been too many lies and not enough truth in the air. 

He tells him he's fine, tells him that it's not so bad and that it's better than before. He's getting by, learning to live with his pain he has and not be living in fear of the pain he's going to receive.

It's progress, it's better than nothing. It's all he has and it’s the half-truth he’s going to hold on to

~

It’s not that he doesn’t try drugs, he does, it just does fuck all for him. Sometimes he’ll get something that takes the bare edge off but his body quickly grows accustomed to it and it becomes useless.

Besides, he’s not a fan of doctors, even in the nicest settings.

Steve offers shoulder rubs and massages, he even goes to classes to learn what to do, and Bucky takes them but the endless numbered pains only slow for a little while, if at all, and Steve, although he can be tireless in the way he wants to help, does actually get hand cramps after a while.

It’s just a part of things, the way life is. He knows the sun rises, knows the world still spins on and is aware that he will wake up and go to sleep in some kind of pain.

It doesn’t get easy, it never gets easy, but he tries to pretend it does, tries to lie and say that you get used to it, that it doesn’t bother him much.

~

There are days when getting out of bed is just a thing that’s not happening.

His head hurts, his shoulder hurts, his back hurts. Pain flares everywhere and he’s left trying to find a spot that aggravates as few of his aches as possible. 

Steve stays with him those days, offering to read or put on music or something but Bucky dismisses him, tells him he doesn’t have to stay, that he’s fine and he’ll be out sooner rather than later.

When he does wind up spending the entire day in bed, biting his lip as he moves and forgetting to eat because he’s so sick to his stomach, he tries to tell himself this is not going to be the rest of his life. He wants to believe for a simple moment that there’s more waiting for him than a broken, ruined body and all the pain that comes with that

He breathes in and out, trying to center himself as Steve brings him tea and soup, something that will go down easy and not be horrible coming back up, because he’s not stupid. He knows enough to know that Bucky won’t handle any real amount of food very well right now.

They sit together, Bucky sipping at the contents and Steve resting one hand against his skin. It hurts (probably the migraine but he can never be be sure) but he doesn’t say anything, just grits his teeth a moment and takes another sip of tea.

~

Sometimes the physical pain is easier.

Sometimes he’s lost in nightmares, in flashbacks, in the hell cage that is his brain and one of his physical ailments will start flaring and he’ll find himself pulled out of it just for a few moments. It’s not enough to ever stop things, not entirely, but it’s something for him to latch onto and hold tight.

~

And sometimes the physical pain is a cage of it’s own.

Sometimes he’s sitting there, feeling every part of his own body screaming and Bucky just wants to throw himself against the walls, break down the doors, slam his hands into knives and make something of all the aching.

Fuck, he knows he is allowed to feel this way, that everything his body went through means that he can feel the pain and not feel ashamed or embarrassed over it, but sometimes he wants blood, he wants a broken bone or _something_ to show that it’s real, that it’s not just him and his stupid fucking brain and god-damned ghosts haunting him.

~

And sometimes, because of everything he has on him, Bucky just sleeps.

He sleeps for as long as he can, which isn’t too long at all. A couple days at most, and he’s stiff and sore every time he wakes again. It’s not a break from the pain, not exactly, but he can sometimes manage a long enough sleep without nightmares or hurt waking him that he can almost feel like he’s going to get through the day without much more than the normal levels of pain.

~

At some point, he’s not too sure when as days bleed into each other more often than not, Sam teaches him abut the Spoon Theory.

Bucky absorbs the information like a sponge, committing the whole thing to his brain as if his life depended on it. It’s not that it changed anything, not exactly, he was still in pain, but it helped give him a way to articulate the things he’s capable of at any given time and he finds that he needed that more than he thought.

Steve learns too, and while he never pushed Bucky on days where his body was being less than manageable, Bucky finds himself better equipped to tell him about when he’s getting to the point that he might just need to not be up and about anymore.

It helps the communication between Bucky and the world and he finds himself more grateful for that than he realizes.

~

There are days when he feels good. Days when there’s not nearly as much to deal with and he feels like he can be fine, push himself, do the things that he knows his body can do and not think about how it’s going to come back to bite him later.

Except those days have their own price, besides the weight they carry once the good time has passed.

The little demons, the wolves in his brain rise up, latch onto his thoughts and don’t let go. He feels like he’s lying, like these few days of wellness, of feeling extra good, are just signs that he’s making it up, that he’s really just fine and the pain is him being weak and stupid. If he can do whatever he wants now, why can’t he do them any time? Why doesn’t his body always behave the way it is in that one moment.

It leaves him angry and tired, frustrated with himself, his body and everything around him He lashes out, snapping and aggressive at everything around him because why the _fuck_ does it work this way? Why can’t he either be completely broken or completely well?

This halfway bullshit isn’t anything like what he wants or needs.

~

But the pain comes back, just as it always does, and he settles down. The hurt is like coming home, if home were a floor of broken glass and you were left without shoes. 

He claims one of the chair that he knows doesn’t aggravate much, closing his eyes and breathing in deep His body has a steady thrum of pain to it but nothing is spiking too badly and his head doesn’t hurt. It’s not ideal, but even what might be considered a ‘good’ day has it’s own prices.

He learns to measure good days not by pain level but by energy. He figures out how many spoons he has, what he’s working with and figures out how to keep that energy as high as he can. He knows Sam wants him to practice self care more and this is a step.

It’s his first and it’s cautious, uncertain and unsteady but it’s something. It’s better than driving himself into the ground, something he attempted to do more than once on certain days, and it’s better than the self loathing that certain days brings on. It’s something to be worked on, climbed carefully and to expect backslides from. 

He knows not every day will be a good one and he knows there will be times where he’s almost screaming with the pain that shoots through him, but he’s trying to learn to live with it, to not let it be what makes him who he is.

He is more than the pain he’s gone through and the pain that awaits him. This is a truth he repeats to himself, a truth he holds tight.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me elsewhere:  
> [My DW](http://rootsofthestories.dreamwidth.org) (which I use regularly)  
> [My Tumblr](http://analtarofstars.tumblr.com/) (which I am very rarely on)  
> [My Twitter](http://twitter.com/harvestgraces) (which I am on at random)


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